Present Tense
by molotovmullet
Summary: All the things he can remember, and all the things he can never forget. Lavi Centric.


Remembrance

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Hello hello. Here's something I wrote somewhere along the way recently. and yeah. I don't have much time so. See ya~! Enjoy~!

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><p>The room is dimly lit. Sunlight filters in through the lone Victiorian window on his right, and his one visible emerald eye takes in the swirling pattern of cracks on the ceiling. A web of memories. A cold draft creeps into the room. He blinks as he realises that it's somewhat different from the cracks that were there yesterday; there's a tiny crack reaching out from the middle branches – like a new twig, naked after a storm.<p>

Maybe Yuu was moving furniture around again last night.

He closes his eyes as the first sounds of hustle and bustle from the town below waft in through the open glass panels that serve as ventilation. He detects the faintest caress of a cello's deep baritone on the shell of his ear. The first note, an F sharp, he thinks – knows, begins the aria. Two beats later, a violin joins the fray, a deep haunting tune, before the viola and another violin blend in with the other instruments in perfect harmony. He knows the time signature, the key, the speed of the music, the volume. Three four, C major, Lento, _mezzo piano_.

Information from long ago.

He listens as the melody swells in the darkness of his mind. The arrangement is neat, but unremarkable, the melody sweet, but unimpressive. He listens. The piece is incomparable to that of more famous composers such as Tchaikovsky's Serenade in C Major, or his own personal favourite, Vivaldi's Four Seasons: Autumn. His fingers dance across an imaginary fingerboard in his mind, perfectly preserved in a corner of his reminiscences. He knows the piece well, despite having only heard it, learned it, once.

A smile ghosts his lips as he recalls the time a busker had beckoned him over, away from where the old Panda was converging in shady business with an equally shady looking man several years ago. The busker, a young, petite lady of about eighteen in a remote area somewhere in Cremona, had smiled at him, and told him she'd noticed how bored he'd looked, and decided to give him something better to do than stand around with boring old men. He remembers he'd smiled as she asked to look at his hands and then complimented the length of his fingers before playfully patting him on the arm and reminding him to eat more; his fingers resembled twigs! Then she'd asked him if he was interested in learning a bit of any instrument, just for a moment, to pass the time. Her quartet members looked at him with equal friendliness. He'd decided that he would go with the cello, because if he tried the violin and was good at it, he'd try and convince the Panda to let him carry one along, it being so small and portable a thing. Such idiocy would breed feelings, and a Bookman wasn't – _isn't_ supposed to possess those. Or at least, they should – _must_ refrain from having them as far as possible. Personas were okay with feelings, but nothing too strong was permitted or it might stick. The cello was a large instrument, and even though he knew he possessed the strength and will to bring it along, it would prove difficult in certain situations and make him somewhat more striking than your average day person on the street. It was unlikely that he'd want to inconvenience himself like that. And Bookmen needed to blend in with the surroundings, not stick out like sore thumbs. He already had an uncommon head of red hair. Why try to make it even worse?

He recalls the way the cellist girl's face lit up with the prospect of teaching him the little details about her instrument. Even more so, he remembers the astonishment playing across her features when he instantly memorized the fingering to their favourite piece; Vivaldi's Autumn. He muses over how he could easily execute the complicated bowing she taught him, and her utter delight at having such a brilliant student.

The music continues to drift into the room, and he knows this song. He remembers it from the day he and the Panda arrived here at the Order. He'd heard the melody in passing that day, hours before he met Lenalee for the first time and made his first slip – showing _true _emotion in his eye and on his face, the quirk of his mouth.

_**Blood.**_

His breath catches in his throat, and suddenly, he's choking to breathe. He sits up by the edge of his bed. The memories flood into the foregrounds of his mind, and his vision is flashing wildly, head spinning.


End file.
